Share this:

New York 1’s ex-reporter Adele Sammarco. Lost her sexual harassment case. Is left with a hefty lawyer’s bill (an unhefty lawyer’s bill doesn’t exist) and won’t be fielding TV offers unless to fix a neighbor’s set. All because her breasts were made fun of and some unwanted snake soul-kissed her, sticking his tongue down to her navel.

She’s in her 40s. Hey, we’ve all been there. Those things happened to every one us in our earlier days. But that was before the world became so litigious. We’ve each endured some too tight hug or some slob whose hand wandered where it shouldn’t.

Deal with it. That’s what we did in our younger, prettier days. Dealt with it. In some cases, sticking a pen in the guy’s lower belly and whispering politely, “Try that again, pal, and you’ll have to go to Emergency to pee,” worked just fine.

I was maybe 10. In a highly respected elderly doctor’s Upper East Side examination room. My mom had left for one second. His hands began examining what wasn’t there for examining. I pushed him away and never mentioned it to a soul. Not anybody. Until now. And I still remember his name.

I was maybe 16. The office of a theatrical agent who had a Tiffany reputation. He took me into a private room to test my voice. And what he looked to test was not my voice. I pushed him off and never mentioned it to anyone. Until now. And I still remember his name.

In whichever way we chose, we dealt with it. Calling a lawyer to say, “I’m suing because this guy laid his hands on me”? Oh, please, if that’s his only part he laid on you, get some nail extensions and inform Larry Lothario next time you’ll rake him like the leaves.

Deal with it.

Today sexual harassment’s against the law. But everything except crooked politicians and thieving bankers seems against the law. Three hardhat construction guys whistling at a girl whose dress is too low, too tight, too short could suddenly find themselves in Solitary Confinement. Our mayor outlaws whatever he doesn’t do. So, no smoking. No sugar, no salt, no carbs, no fats. One day he’ll declare sex is verboten. Until then — deal with it.

BEING the policeman of the world is very heavy — but I guess somebody has to do it:

I now take up the case of one of the world’s most awful vile putrid human beings. Mel Gibson. I give thanks to The Divine One for the fact that this man’s career is receding at the same rate as his hairline.

In my kindly benevolent limited view he’s the lowest in human life — except for bin Laden. I speak not of his headlined drunken tirade against Jews, which naturally was quickly followed by the “Some of my best friends are Jews” speech, because even in a stupor he knew Hollywood is not a predominantly Catholic town and most studios are not run by Presbyterians.

I speak of a man with a loyal devoted wife of nearly 30 years, who stuck by him when he was nothing, when he had nothing, and with whom he had seven children — and whom he dumped by the side of the road like you do a used sofa.

The dump was because he found firmer flesh. This new young body he ravished was only a few summers older than the amount of years he’d lived with his handsome wife, Robyn. But The Divine One was taking care of things. He made sure this pip was Russian. Let me tell you about the Russian ladies. Libraries have been written about how they’ll often do anything — to anyone — to get out of the country. To get a husband so they can stay legally. To get money. Don’t necessarily have to love you. Just have to meet you.

This Oksana Grigorieva quick had Mel’s next baby. A girl. So he married her. So she doesn’t need him anymore. Actually, nobody needs him anymore. She got his name, got his status, she’ll get his money. The only part of this union she no longer needs — is him. They were together a whole five months. They are now getting divorced.

But sweet Oksana’s been busy. No grass grows under whichever part she’s not using for the moment. The Russian lady’s trading up. Even before she met the temporary semi-balding former star of her dreams, Mel Gibson, she’d already made one kid with actor Timothy Dalton. Dalton did not marry her. Dalton dodged the bullet.

Mel Gibson. May he take a sleeping pill and a laxative the same night. I feel so badly for him, I’m sending out the party invitations now.

ONE passing note about another flopped hero. Tiki Barber. No longer a big- time major in-demand running back, the only part of him that’s running these days is his front. Married 11 years. He has two boys, 6 and 8. And now, while looking to unload Ginny for their babysitter, right at this moment, now, his beautiful wife is pregnant with his twins.

I remember sitting with this fallen ex former previous hero at some autographed artwork thing for Valentine’s Day 2003. A colleague pig John Edwards delivered a heart in a vase with “Everything stems from the heart.” Mr. Edwards, of course, makes us all want to puke. Tiki’s flower had said: “Without love there is no life.”

This babysitter is maybe 22. The baby it appears she mostly sat — or whichever position worked — was Tiki. He sent her flowers. Gave her a diamond bracelet. Took her on a trip with his pregnant wife.